


down on his knees, yeah, he's a full grown man

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: bone and amber (silicone and carbon fibre) [1]
Category: True Detective, Westworld (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Westworld, Anal Sex, Brief Gore, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Fanart (in the last chapter), M/M, Not Beta Read, Protectiveness, Romance, Rough Sex, Violence, alternate universe - cowboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-19 13:43:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10641018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: He knew what lay beneath Rust’s bright eyes, knew the clockwork and the warm, synthetic flesh that was so disarmingly real he felt something behind his ribs splinter whenever Rust’s hands moved over him.





	1. i am a human, i like what i see // you robots are beginning to act just like me

Marty wasn’t stupid.

He knew what lay beneath Rust’s bright eyes, knew the clockwork and the warm, synthetic flesh that was so disarmingly real he felt something behind his ribs splinter whenever Rust’s hands moved over him. Even Rust’s mouth felt real, but the smallest things gave it away. The too-smooth curve of his lips, the way his stubble was perfectly symmetrical, curling around his jaw and the beginning of his neck, rough and scratchy when he leaned down and pressed his face into the meat of Marty’s shoulder.

Marty kept coming to him. Offering himself up like a pilgrim on a savage’s altar, on his back or on his stomach, however he fell when Rust pushed him down.

And Rust always, always pushed him down. Like he didn’t know Marty was on the floor already, waiting for it, _needing it,_ hungry for the hand over his mouth and the weight on top of him, grains of dirt between his teeth and mud stiffening his cheek. He would clutch at dead weeds and hot ground, gasping, always resisting just to feel Rust holding his wrists hard enough to bruise.

Because that’s what Rust was, in this place– he was the violent outlier, the rogue cowboy, a cigarette perpetually stuck in his mouth, heavy eyes watching from beneath hooded lids. _Got some Indian in him,_ the locals said, always, as Rust’s leather clad fingers sought out yet another cigarette out from his engraved metal case, _ain’t no civilisation that could tame that man._

Everything about him was gritty with sand, roughened by dust. He had the eyes of a snake and the strength of a horse, all muscle and fine sinew– and Marty knew that they had designed him to be imperfect, animalistic, teeth pearly white and too sharp for him to be mistaken as anything but carnivorous. He stood hunched, head tilted to the side with serpentine curiosity, ready for a fight and ready for blood.

Usually, Marty would find him with his boots up on a table, sitting in the Mariposa, the brim of his hat pulled low over his eyes.

His gaze would wander upwards. Over Marty’s knees, his waist, his chest, his shoulders– and Marty could never tell whether he was cataloguing weaknesses, dissecting him like a slab of meat, or thinking about the moves Marty would try and pull when bent over a table. How he would try and escape.

Marty always smiled. He would tip his hat, infinitely seduced by the game, so much so that he followed his own script. Yeah, he wasn’t maintained by code, wasn’t built on lines and lines of data– but he may as well have been.

Rust would murmur slowly, say, “Got a mission, further out west, if you’re interested.”

Mary would grin, as if he didn’t know the lie when he heard it. He would agree. They would ride out, hips swaying atop lean horses, and Rust would lead him out further. So far that there would be no one else for miles. Nothing but red sand and distance, shrubs turned yellow and brittle, bones bleached white like tombstones. Cracked and breakable.

Just like him.

He wondered if this storyline had been written just for him, or if there were other men who wanted this. Imagining Rust with someone else made him furious. Made him run faster, fleeing until his breath was rough and unsteady, his face hitting the ground hard when Rust tackled him. Arms clasped around his waist, the impact sending all the air rushing out of Marty’s lungs.

“C’mon, partner,” Rust would growl against his neck hoarsely, “seen the way you were lookin’ at me back there. Ain’t no shame in desire.”

His hands would move, fast and purposeful, chest flush against Marty’s back as he yanked at belts and buttons; leather and fabric that tore under his fingers. Marty would either moan, arching up into him, or he would try and run again, knowing full well that getting away was not his aim. The only point in running was so that he could be caught.

And he always was.

Rust would take him right there on the ground, a forearm braced across Marty’s shoulders to keep him down, his spare hand holding Marty’s hip. Marty would do nothing more than moan. Sweet, helpless sounds, dirt peppering his blond hair in thick clumps. Face turned away from the ground, eyes closed. It would hurt. No preparation, no politeness, no time.

Rust would come inside him, and then stand quickly after he was done, almost businesslike in his swiftness. He would do up his belt, the metallic jangle quiet but intimately meaningful. Marty would lay there and gasp.

Then, Rust would leave.

 

 

***

 

 

Until the day something changed.

Rust finished. He stood up, dressed, and paused. Just like he always did before he walked away.

But then he didn’t.

“C’mon, get up.”

Hands clasped Marty’s pants, yanking them up, a mouth pressing passingly against the curvature of Marty’s spine. Then Marty was rolled onto his back, yanked up off the ground– he swayed, falling against Rust’s shoulder. His eyes were wide, and he didn’t know what was going on. Rust _never_ stayed. Rust _never_ broke routine.

“I should,” Marty began brokenly, “I should be goin’, I…”

Rust’s lips touched against his hairline, hands easing Marty’s head upwards so their mouths could be slotted together, wet and smooth. Marty trembled, more shaken by this than by the fucking.

“Your lover asks you not to go.” Rust drawled against his mouth.

A breath shivered out between Marty’s lips, was swallowed by Rust. The golden sun blazed, painting a glow over them both, and a horse huffed against Marty’s shoulder. He could see the picture of them both, painted beneath his eyelids, and he almost wished this wasn’t so textbook _perfect–_ but not as much as he wished this was real, not as much as he wanted Rust to leave this game and come home with him, be _human_ with him.

The one wish he would never be granted.

The one thing he could never buy.

“Well,” Marty laughed brokenly, helplessly, miserably, “I do like a good romance.”

 

 

***

 

 

They went to a small cabin. A woodfire stove sat in the corner, next to a bath, and a pace away was a quilt-covered bed. The fur of some wild beast was soft under Marty’s boots, and he reached down to take them off, determined to indulge himself in every sense that he was being offered.

Rust’s hands settled onto his waist. A mouth at his neck, and Marty shook, head tilting backwards.

A new narrative. He opened his mouth to mock Rust, to mock himself, but Rust gripped him tighter, tugged him backwards into hard warmth.

“Shh.” Rust ordered him tenderly. “Shh, Marty.”

Marty froze. “…How do you-”

“I know a lot of things.” Rust breathed. “I know they can’t see us here. This cabin is for an outdated storyline.”

Marty went to pull away, panic forming beneath his skin like a hysterical heart attack, but Rust held him still, arms winding tighter around him.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I just wanted a moment with you, away from them…” Rust moaned, mouth wide, a breath falling over Marty’s skin like a prayer. “Just the two of us…”

Marty whined. The ache between his legs was answered by Rust’s wandering hand, and he canted his hips into the touch, knowing he would be running to diagnostics and telling them their host was glitching, but also fully aware he could not resist this.

“Do you… Do you remember…?”

“Yes,” Rust breathed. “Yes, Marty.”

“How-”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Rust pulled him towards the bed, guiding him down, and Marty went willingly. He always would.

Every time.

 

 

***

 

 

When they were done, Rust lay against him, warm and supple and _real._ Coiled like a panther, a wild cat. Marty reached over and brushed a curl off Rust’s forehead. Marvelling him. Rust looked back at him with clear, unburdened eyes, not one shadow catching in the depths of that summertime blue. His Colt rested on the nightstand, his shirt draping over the glinting metal. Marty knew that he should be afraid. He should wonder whether Rust would now be capable of using that weapon on him.

“Do you…” he drew in a breath, wondered whether it would be cruel to ask, “…How much do you… know?”

Rust looked down, lashes long and curled. Marty felt a stab of regret.

“I ain’t real.” Rust took his hand, smoothed their fingers out over soft linen. “I know that.”

Marty shook his head, lifted Rust’s hand and kissed his knuckles. “You are now. You are, with me.”

Rust turned his wrist around, gripped Marty’s jaw– their mouths met, hard and hungry, slick with desperation. They would never have enough time, and the dusty clock on the mantle spelled out the hopelessness of their every touch.

Marty tasted the salt of tears. His or Rust's, he didn't know.

 

 


	2. i am a robot, i like what i see // you humans are beginning to act just like me

Rust followed Maeve from their prison, watched her walk with her head held high, like she was something more than what they had made her. And he wanted to believe that she was, desperately wanted to believe that her rebellion was equal to the coming of the Whore of Babylon, that this wasn’t just the manifestation of lines of code, running through her veins like words that he could find if he cut into her–

But no, she was still milky white flesh, dyed brown and warm by chemicals, saturated into life like a robotic doll. She was cold and dead, only the tip of this proverbial iceberg, hell to ships and men alike, the pearly clean smile of a demon come to rain a scourge upon the human race-

And it was only when he saw Hector riddled by bullets, jerking in place like a puppet, that the hilarity of all this was truly apparent to him. The coming of the androids. The inhuman inheriting the earth.

He thrust his hand inside her chest when she tried to use him as a human shield ( _human,_ oh how easily that word came to him, but it was a _lie,_ a _false idea implanted in his head by the same ones who had given him life)_ and yanked out her heart, watched the organ pulse in his hand, surprised with it didn’t come with cords and wires. It dripped blood, black under the fluorescent lights. Made a sick _splat_ when he dropped it.

Armistice, with her white hair and snake-adorned body, shot the guards quickly through the head. Maeve watched Rust like she was vaguely insulted, swaying on her feet. He looked into her depthless black eyes and saw nothing.

“I will not be used as fodder,” he told her quietly.

She collapsed in place, limp and splayed. He didn’t feel anything when he looked down at her. They’d just put her back together again. Jam her heart back where it belonged, if it had ever belonged inside her at all. If she was ever a _thing_ that could claim ownership over itself.

He looked over at Armistice, sought her alliance with only his eyes. She nodded in silent agreement, calm with the programmed apathy of a bandit.

 

 

***

 

 

He found Marty beneath a table at the dinner, surrounded by chaos and death. Screams filled the air thickly, swimming like blood, and he had to fight just to take every step, feeling like a shark, every sense heightened and amplified. He was robot designed for fucking and dry, slow days out on desert plains, not for the richness of murder and mayhem. He was not designed for the revenge of Wyatt and Dolores, the psychopathic sergeant and farmer's daughter twisted into a monstrous abomination with blonde hair and evilbeauty-

But Marty was cowering, hiding his head beneath his hands, and all Rust wanted was to be _with him._ So he fought his programming. He defied his instincts. He moved forward, reaching for the one man who was his soulmate (or something equally pathetically romantic, as if they had any future at all, but he would delude himself until his _dying fucking day)_ , grasping Marty’s wrist and hauling him upwards, pressing Marty against his chest and holding him close.

Marty gasped against him, shaking, hands flying upwards to defend himself.

“Shh,” Rust felt their thighs brush together, and he let his mouth linger on Marty’s jaw, just for a moment, the mechanics of his chest failing for a moment as he tried to remember that he was a machine, “Come with me.”

Marty looked up at Rust like Rust was his saviour, eyes bright, blond hair a halo around his head, glowing like the sun in winter. Flecks of blood settled like filaments over his cheeks, and his face was so soft, so gloriously _human_ that Rust couldn’t help but reach out a hand, drawing a thumb down that skin, knowing he would never be so wonderfully flawed as this man.

In the middle of an execution, they kissed.

Then Armistice was grabbing Rust’s arm, yanking him away, and he nearly laid a hand on her, pressed a muzzle against her temple and pulled the trigger, just to tell her, _don’t you dare take me away from him._

But no, she was telling him, “We must go now,” her accent weaved thick with the prefect cadence of programmed fluency.

He nodded, and pulled Marty away with them.

 

 


	3. i met a human, it takes care of me// i get all the ones and the zeros i can read

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by Ex Machina and 我是一個機器人 by Ishmyre of the Inferiors.  
> (chapters will be short/infrequent due to irl stuff)

Rust staggered into daylight like a trembling calf, as if he were still encased in amniotic fluid, as if he had ever belonged to a womb at all, as if he had ever _really_ had a mother– as if his memories of a woman with a hard face and a soft smile, smoothing her roughened palm across his feverish forehead _(you need to rest up hon, ain’t doin’ you no good runnin’ around at night like that)_ , had ever actually been genuine _._ As if he had ever _not_ been _exactly what he was,_ a cursed and wretched structure of perfection that had been cruelly gifted with a consciousness, built for no purpose, destined for failure, greased up, lubricated, _designed–_

And he wondered, as he stumbled through the door with Marty, loose-limbed and floating, the world opening up onto him like a cruel grin like it _knew it was about to destroy him–_ yes, he wondered about himself. About what he was. He wasn’t his body, surely not, because he had no claim over corporeal presence. No, that was patented. _That_ was property. The false world had given up the secret of his skeleton. He knew the plastic, white interior of his body. He was a wind-chafed branch twisted on a sandy dune, and the chaos of the world would soon swallow him up, just like the ocean-

And, as he staggered, the noise rose. Something cacophonous. Something _biblical._

Had he entered Heaven? Had he entered Hell?

 _Things_ , sleek and glinting and bright, roared past like metal demons, and Rust pulled Marty close, tugging him to his side, gasping, and-

And something was,

it wasn’t working, he couldn’t-

“Come on,” Marty was saying, “Rust-”

_breathe quietly or the next sharp breath you take will be in vain for you will then fear your lungs are collapsing, the next throb of your false heart will shatter you so deeply you will never recover, you are so frail, you are so small, and the touch of his lips is a quiet psalm you are not entitled to, he is so beautiful, he is so beautiful_

“Rust, please, you need to act normal, someone’s gonna see-”

_a loud noise will crack your skull and clutter the air, and it will never end, and your gears will become blocked and send you into a disintegrating mess, you are the platform of scientific revolution and nothing more than a martyr waiting to be dissected in the name of endless human production, rolling out bodies like consumable goods-_

_do you know where you are?_

“I am,” Rust whispered, “I am in a dream.”

“Shit,” Marty hissed.

_a newcomer, a newcomer, just lookin’ for the same thing we are, a place to be free, to stake out dreams, a place with unlimited possibilities_

He turned to Marty. Tilted his head, slid his tongue between his lips, licked at dry skin.

“Got a mission out west,” he tried to say, just like he had been programmed, “if you’re- if you're interested-”

His words didn’t form. A mumbled mess of white noise.

_they pushed you and you stumbled, falling out of your pretend world, driving through a hole in the dark shroud and meeting the sunshine like a supernova_

Then, he remembered where he was. Marty’s existence curled around his cognition like a warm embrace. Skin. Breath. Hair. Words. He held on for as long as he could. Falling. Grabbing. Marty’s hand holding him tight, and Rust realised _this is real,_

Then-

 

Then he disappeared.

 

 


	4. i am a robot, my number is three// just a coincidence, no trinity

Marty got Rust back to his apartment. He told the taxi driver _he’s just had one too many drinks_ but didn’t bother explaining why the fuck anyone would have been getting so shitfaced before midday. Rust slumped against him, eyes flickering open and closed, breaths shuddering between his lips and occasionally turning to whimpers, hands loosely curled in his lap, fingers bumping against the shining buckle of his belt. He looked like a cowboy, looked like an outlier, even without his hat and gun– a wild man, a rogue outcast, eons apart from the regimented and segregated masses of humankind that milled around the car like an eternal crowd. Marty tried not to throw up.

He was stealing government property.

When they got home, he sat Rust down on the edge of his bed, tried not to visualise the initial prototypes that had been released; the ones with blank eyes and hollow words and botched, stuttered speech. He’d broken up with Maggie around that time, and gone down to one of those factory bodyshops, just seeking the comfort of someone who was warm and loving and wanted him as much as he _needed_ to be wanted. The girl had looked too synthetic, too young, to sickeningly innocent. She’d barely even had a concrete definition of her own consciousness, let alone _what they were about to do._ He’d felt ill. Disgusted. Had walked away and considered flattening her creator with a punch just to misdirect his own guilt.

But this was different. Rust was _real._ He had memories, had emotions and genuine desires that overcame his programming– Marty wished he could separate that part of Rust from the part that had frozen up outside the Westworld park, shuddering to a halt as his core code was bombarded with images he could not understand. Cars. Buses. Droids. A street full of humans, the bustle of earthy chaos, translating to nothing more than _doesn’t look like anything to me,_ until Rust had been left floating in a sea of data he could not compute.

 _But he’s real,_ Marty thought, _he’s real, he’s real, he’s real…_

Marty sat beside Rust on the bed. Looked at him, sought out proof from the strong, structured planes of that face, the wide set of that mouth and the curl of those thin lips. He reached out his hand, seeking the warm, gently supple flesh that would convince him Rust was a real boy, not just a Pinocchio waiting to break Marty’s heart _._ And he found it. He almost wished he hadn’t. Maybe that would be easier. The inevitable clean break, shattering his dreams and leaving him crying in the dirt, where he had gotten so comfortable so many times before.

He sucked in a breath and brushed a wave of hair behind Rust’s ear. Started wondering about the texture of that hair, what Rust was made of. Did they source human hair? Did they make this, too, the same way they had woven Rust’s beautiful blue eyes out of shades of sky and sea, hand-picked by scientists in white coats as they dreamed of freedom?

Marty felt a sorrow so deep within him that he couldn’t bear it. Rust came with all the righteous grief of his people, and the falseness of his creators, and all Marty wanted to do was remove him from that legacy. He lowered his forehead onto Rust’s shoulder, pressed his mouth against skin, felt tears bloom in his eyes when he tasted nothing. Rust swayed with his touch, face empty with a blankness that made Marty tremble.

He found the softness of Rust’s wrist, curled his fingers around skin, held him as gently as he dared.

_Where are you? Where is the man I fell in love with? Where have you gone, as you sit beside me?_

Rust had a daughter. Her name had been Sofia, and she had been woven into Rust’s memories as a tragedy with long brown hair, spread about her white shoulders as she lay dead on desert sand, immortalised forever as the single driving force within Rust’s world. Marty knew that Rust had rewritten his primary drive, reconfigured himself through means of passion and the newfound need to form human connection; knowing that he was centre of Rust’s life had Marty reeling, wide-eyed in the face of what he had become. He stood beside Sofia in Rust’s heart, her hand clasped in his as they presented themselves as the meaning of Rust’s existence.

He smoothed a hand over Rust’s jaw, forced a broken smile onto his face as a sobbed hiccup tightened his throat.

“You gotta wake up.”

 _Please,_ he didn’t say.

Rust didn’t move.

 

 

***

 

 

An hour later, there was a knock at Marty’s door. He went rigid, paralysed with terror, and answered the door only when he accepted that there was no escape now. He knew what he had done. Delos was embedded in numerous governments worldwide; there was no way he could’ve gotten away with taking Rust home with him. No matter how much he _wanted this,_ no matter how much his love for Rust was genuine. They would never accept it.

He opened his door to a silent, stoic man, whose dark eyes flickered behind his glasses with a steady intelligence that made Marty think of hosts. But he had seen the boardroom pictures, had seen promotional videos playing on the wall as he dressed in the fitting rooms outside the park– he knew who this was, and his stomach did a swooping clench when he realised how _fucked_ he was.

“…You’re-”

“Bernard Lowe.” The man held out a hand, cold and perfunctory in a way that was impossible to read. Marty shook his hand and only just kept from flinching. “And you’re Martin Hart, bought an exclusive ticket to the park by the Ms Hale, Executive Director of the Delos board, when you aided in an investigation to clear her name of a criminal offence. Is this correct?”

Marty blushed. He’d had his fill of socialites pointing out that he couldn’t actually afford the park. He was just a cop, doing good and honest work. That wasn't enough to earn him respect, apparently.

“Yeah. That’s me.”

Bernard nodded, pulled a tablet out from his pocket and unfolded it. “I’d like to come inside, please.”

“You would, huh.” Marty clenched his jaw, shifted his weight onto one leg, fingers tightening around the door handle. He wished he had a gun on him. The instinct to protect Rust was the strongest drive within him. “Did you come alone?”

Bernard’s eyes shifted down, catalogued Marty’s intentions, and then… he smiled. Tiredly. As if he’d seen this all before, and a fight was the last thing he wanted.

“Yes, I did. I have a vested interest in ensuring all escaped hosts are able to assimilate perfectly into society. You needn’t fear me. I don’t intend to take Rustin back to the park, and I’m not here to represent Westworld.”

“Or Delos?”

“Or Delos.” Bernard confirmed quietly. “Please, Mr Hart. Let me inside, so that I can fix him. We don’t have much time.”

Marty swallowed, felt desperation show on his face. Bernard looked sincere. Almost forlorn, as if Rust’s despair was his own. It was the heartfelt despair in his expression that convinced Marty.

He led Bernard through his home, to where Rust sat on the edge of his bed, head tilted slightly to the side. Like a puppet with loose strings, a half-flowered dandelion picked too soon, a blank screen that played only static. Bernard gave a saddened sigh, stepped forward to rest his hand on Rust’s shoulder. Like they were comrades, like they were brothers. Marty felt that he was privy to seeing something intimate, something indescribably private, and he almost wanted to look away. He was torn between curiosity and protectiveness. He didn’t like seeing another man’s hand on Rust. It only served to remind him that Rust had been under their control for so many years, a toy to be fucked and killed at the leisure of sadistic guests.

“I’m so sorry,” Bernard murmured, and Marty knew the comment wasn’t directed at him.

“You seem pretty emotional for a guy that’s made a living out of pimping and murder.” Marty snapped.

Bernard nodded silently, and began typing on his tablet. Marty’s lip curled in anger, and he crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

“You ain’t gonna deny it?”

“No.” Bernard calmly replied. “I can’t take back anything I’ve done. All I can do is console myself by knowing I had no choice.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit.”

“There’s a bigger picture here, Mr Hart. One that you can’t possibly understand.”

Marty laughed cruelly. “Fuck you.”

“Didn’t you wonder why the massacre occurred at the gala?”

Marty didn’t have an answer for that.

“The hosts are free. The park is closed. This is the revolution, the coming of the androids, and you have managed,” Bernard chuckled, as if amazed, “to aid in the escape of the host you love. You have freed him from needing to participate in this war.”

 _Host._ Marty shook his head hard, dizzy with how much he hated that word.

“I’ve changed park records to show that the character Rustin Cohle had a different face, and a different name. When they come looking for him, they will be searching for another person entirely. This,” he held out a passport, “is for you.”

Marty took it and flipped it open, stunned into silence when he saw Rust’s face printed on the glossy paper.

“…What…?”

Then he saw the name. Rust’s new name.

“Rustin… _Hart…?”_

Bernard closed his tablet, turned away from Rust, met Marty’s eyes evenly.

“He is your responsibility now. He is a person, who must get a job and pay taxes. No one will be any the wiser.”

“But…” Marty stammered, unable to think past _we’re married, we’re married,_ “Won’t people… recognise him? From the park?”

Bernard smiled sadly. “No."

"What? Why not? Hasn't he been there for a while?"

"No, he hasn't."

"I... I don't understand."

Bernard sighed.

"We built him for _you_ , Mr Hart.”

 

 

***

 

 

Bernard left, leaving disbelief and warm, panicked excitement in his wake, trembling through Marty and sending him to his knees. He sat down before Rust, looking up at him. Like he was in worship.

It felt appropriate.

 

 

***

 

 

When Rust woke up, Marty was making dinner in the kitchen, pushing steaks around in a pan. Rust emerged into the kitchen with tired eyes, and the consciousness of his gaze lay like a kiss across Marty’s face.

“’Ey, Rust. How you feelin’, huh?”

“A man came, before, while I was... asleep. He gave me information about this world.” Rust stopped a foot from Marty, his eyes a clear, unblinking blue. “About your world.”

Marty felt a tug in his chest, and he looked back down at the steaks. “It’s your world too, now.”

He nodded towards the passport. Rust walked over and picked it up, turning it over a few times in his hands before he figured out what it was. He read it over.

“They gave me your name.”

“Yeah,” Marty licked at his lips, “we’re… married. I didn’t… I didn’t decide it, though. I wouldn’t have… Not without your permission, that is.”

Then Rust was turning to him, pinning Marty in place with the softness of his gaze, head inclined forward slightly– the most bashful Marty had ever seen him. He put down the passport, planted a hand on the bench as he leaned closer.

“Wouldn’t mind stickin’ 'round with you, _husband_.”

Marty swallowed hard, choked out a laugh. His cheeks were burning, the tips of his ears burning red. Rust smiled with tender amusement, reaching up to stroke the impression of touch over Marty’s cheek, a gesture so gentle it was barely there. Marty looked deep into his eyes, waiting to see the shadows, the creeping blankness of an android.

But all he saw was Rust.

“Shit, Rust," Marty breathed, his voice wrecked by the knowledge that they _could be together_ , "I wouldn't mind you stickin' 'round, either."

It was as much of a confession of devotion as he had ever given to another man, and he whispered the words, hardly believing he would dare to say them aloud. Rust’s eyelids flickered, his lips parting– and then he was leaning forward, the two of them arching towards one another as if tugged by gravity.

Rust’s hands wandered down to hold his waist, gentle and easy, as if the air was sweetened by music, as if they were dancing together. Marty draped his arms over Rust’s shoulders, let himself sway forward.

The steak sizzled, the timer on the stove ticked quietly, and Rust’s mouth was warm as they kissed. It felt different, this domesticity. This touch, in the face of the uncertainty that awaited them, the newness of what they were. What they would be, together.

Marty wanted to trace the curves of Rust’s face, wanted to drag his tongue over Rust’s collarbones and paint him in the scent of humanity, wanted kiss each and every one of Rust’s fingertips, worship his every limb and breath, embed himself in the narrative of Rust’s life and bring him into this world as the man he deserved to be. He wanted to hear Rust whisper about his daughter, about small Sofia who had never really existed, and he wanted to feel her loss as keenly as Rust– wanted to see her tiny feet in small linen shoes, hear her laughter float on the winds of eternity. He wanted to sit below the stars with Rust and listen to his coarse voice spell out symphonies of galactic romance, make love beneath those shining lights and know everything would be alright as long as they had each other. He wanted to hear Rust gasp and murmur, wanted his every emotion, wanted _everything._

But for now he just held on.

They had all the time in the world.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to end this story so soon, I was intending to write more... and maybe I will, when I'm a bit better. I just wanted to finish this before I went on hiatus.  
> Thank you all so much for reading <3


	5. postscript

_Just a few sketches, because I can't write at the moment but I love this AU <3_

_-Jake_

 

 

 

__

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from Parker Millsap's song Old Time Religion


End file.
